


Nothing Ruins a Show Like Too Much Exposition

by Ardatli



Series: There's No People Like Show People [3]
Category: Young Avengers
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Established Relationship, F/F, Fingerfucking, Oral Sex, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 16:38:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ardatli/pseuds/Ardatli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America’s clenched jaw should have been a warning sign, the vein throbbing in her forehead the next one. Still, Kate wasn’t entirely ready for what came out of her mouth next. “We need to do a Christmas show,” America said, sounding like she was suggesting pulling her own teeth out with pliers. “That's what keeps most places in the black the rest of the year."</p><p>Kate paused in her flipping, and stared at America with wide and mournful eyes. “No. I hate Christmas shows.”</p><p>“Everyone hates Christmas shows.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Ruins a Show Like Too Much Exposition

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh. Here we are again. This one started out as a chance to bitch about seasonal shows, and turned into smut. I probably should apologize, but I'm not going to. 
> 
> Title is from Urinetown: The Musical.

America’s office door was shut, but Kate didn’t bother knocking. One hip-check and the ancient latch disconnected, the door swinging open into the small room. It was one of the bigger offices in the theater, technically, but that didn’t make it more comfortable on its own. Posters from previous shows hid the worst of the peeling paint and ancient water stains on the walls, and the huge oak desk retrieved from one of Kate’s dad’s old offices took up the floor space that wasn’t occupied by the bookcase full of scripts and production binders. She kicked the door closed behind her in a gesture born of long habit, and it swung closed with a satisfying click.

“And where is the applause?” Kate posed in the twp square feet of space between the door and the desk. “That was a beautifully smooth move.” America slowly raised her head from the papers scattered across the wooden surface, and gave her a small, sarcastic golf clap. “Now is that any way to treat the woman who brought you tea?” Kate shoved her sunglasses – Versace, naturally – up on her head with the back of her wrist, and set the shopping bags on the floor. Trim, buttons, paint for Teddy, it was a hard job, but someone had to do it. “I don’t know how you can drink that stuff,” she complained, handing over the viscous cup of crap. “The balls have the texture of come.”

“I’d ask who you’ve slept with who compares to bubble tea, but I’m equally sure that I have no interest in the answer.” America leaned back in her office chair, the hinge squeaking with the shift in her weight. She mouthed at the wide straw, catching it with her darting tongue, and her dark brown eyes flashed with amusement when she caught Kate staring.

“I can never listen to ‘Purple Rain’ again, that’s all I’m saying,” Kate shuddered delicately, and rounded the corner of America’s desk to perch on top, shifting a stack of scripts out of the way. “What’re you working on?”

America slurped her tea loudly, just to make Kate’s eyebrow twitch, then set the cup aside. “A season proposal for next year,” she explained in her usual clipped and efficient way. “For the budget meeting tomorrow. The receipts haven’t been great,” she elaborated, a frown twisting her mouth into a grimace.

“So you’re trying to find shows we can do that will have more curb appeal?” Kate guessed, grabbing some of the pages from the top of the pile and flipping through them. “What have you come up with?”

America’s clenched jaw should have been a warning sign, the vein throbbing in her forehead the next one. Still, Kate wasn’t entirely ready for what came out of her mouth next. “We need to do a Christmas show,” America said, sounding like she was suggesting pulling her own teeth out with pliers. “That's what keeps most places in the black the rest of the year."

Kate paused in her flipping, and stared at America with wide and mournful eyes. “No. I hate Christmas shows.”

“Everyone hates Christmas shows.”

“Almost everyone,” Kate corrected her. “Eli confiscated Noh and Teddy’s Santa hats again last week.” Though America did have more reason than most.

Kate set the papers down again and linked one finger through the long silver chain that always hid under America’s clothes, the one that led down to the delicate pentacle hanging between her full, round breasts. One more thing that she kept to herself so fiercely, along with the reasons for the matching tattoos on her wrists; one more that Kate was among the very few privileged to know. America held still, not reacting overtly to the touch, but her breathing hitched just a little bit, and her pulse had jumped when Kate’s knuckle brushed against the hollow of her throat.

“You, Billy and Tommy maybe more than the rest of us,” Kate conceded, as gently as she knew how. America glared at her, which she deserved. “But the screaming and puking kids on permanent sugar highs, endless rolls of red felt, white fake fur and jingle-fucking-bells sewn on to everything drive _everyone_ crazy.”

“There’s always a snowstorm right before opening,” America stared off into the distance with the look of a woman facing down her doom with grim determination. “We end up loading in through sleet, or cancelling dress rehearsal for freezing rain.”

Kate nodded solemnly. “We can’t find any costumes to rent and end up building everything, because every other theater in a fifty mile radius is using all their Victorian stock.”

“There’s not a single script in the standard seasonal canon that isn’t a hopelessly cloying piece of sentimentalist garbage.” America’s shoulders slumped in a gesture of defeat.   

“Christmas sweaters,” Kate intoned with a voice like a funeral bell. America’s lip twitched in surrender to her trump card. Kate rested her hands on America’s shoulders and rubbed slow and easy circles over the tight knots she always got at the very base of her neck. Her head sagged forward as Kate dug her fingertips in, until her forehead bumped against Kate’s thigh. “You know,” Kate led off, grinning. “’Gremlins’ is technically a Christmas story.”

“Good luck getting Teddy to rig for puppets,” America replied, voice muffled in the folds of Kate’s skirt.

“You know he’d try anything if you asked,” Kate pointed out, then paused. The idea took form in swirls of color, bright makeup and swathes of ruffles, in pink and brilliant splashes of purple. Now that was actually... actually a feasible idea, maybe even _good._ “How about this: we go old-school and do a panto.” America tensed up again and lifted her head, her brows furrowing with the rejection that was about to come, and Kate pressed a finger against her lips. America bit it gently. “But play it satire. We get a RuPaul Pantomime Dame instead of a Dame Edna, a genderqueer Principal Boy, and go all Stonewall-subversive on its ass.”

America scraped her bottom teeth across Kate’s fingertip, then let it fall from her mouth. “Panto is already satire,” she corrected her, her voice as dry as the desert.

“I knew that.” Kate tossed her hair, the glasses staying lodged on her head exactly where she’d placed them. Good babies. “But not New York style.”

The silence dragged out for a minute while America wore her ‘chewing on it’ face, then, “... it has potential.” America settled down with a soft groan that would be all she would ever show of her exhaustion, pillowing her head on Kate’s thigh. “God bless us, everyone,” she muttered with pure, distilled loathing.

Her curls spilled across Kate’s leg, softer than they had any right to be. Kate tangled her fingers in America’s hair, tugging at it gently. America made a soft sound that sounded happy, and Kate massaged her head in tiny little circles. She was warm and sagged against Kate pliantly, one of those little things, Kate had finally figured out after a few years, that only happened when she was sad, or exhausted.  

Maybe not _totally_ exhausted, because her hand was brushing lightly against Kate’s ankle. Kate wriggled her feet, kicking off the fancy heels. They thudded to the floor, one, then two. America’s fingers trailed up Kate’s leg, the texture of her skin muted by the nylon stockings. She brushed against the tender and sensitive skin under the bend of Kate’s knee, pressing in against the nerve.

Her head never moved from where it rested on Kate’s other thigh, but her fingers explored higher, pushing Kate’s dress up until it fell away over her hips, her leg bare above the elastic of her thigh-highs. America huffed out a puff of air, hot against Kate’s newly bared skin, and circled her hand around Kate’s thigh above the lace of the stocking.

“No garter belt, Princess?” America asked, and scudded the pad of her thumb across the outside of Kate’s thigh, just below her hip, where an elastic might have gone.

“Too fussy,” Kate shrugged. The back of America’s hand brushed lightly against the damp black cotton between her legs, just the barest glancing contact that might have been accidental, and Kate bit her lip to stop from gasping.

“That’s never stopped you before,” America huffed out quiet laughter, totally busting her. She curled her fingers in and pressed her knuckles against Kate’s crotch, firmly, quickly, long enough for Kate to grind her hips up against the pressure once, just _once_ , and then she pulled her hand away. Kate’s nipples tightened despite the lack of any kind of attention, heat pooling and stabbing in the cradle of her pelvis.

“I can’t get boring and predictable,” Kate pointed out, digging her fingers into America’s hair, tugging her where she wanted – needed – her to go. America stayed firmly where she was, tracing one fingertip delicately along the lace leg edge of Kate’s panties. She breathed out, hot and damp, sensation that curled around Kate’s cunt. Everything flushed, her hips flexing.

If America wouldn’t touch, then maybe at least Kate could. She left her hand in America’s hair, but the other- she dropped it between them, brushing over what she could reach. America’s breasts were spectacular, heavy in Kate’s hands, her areolas wide and dark against her dusky skin. She couldn’t see them now, only imagine and remember what they would look like under America’s t-shirt, pulling tight under Kate’s questing fingers, nipples dimpling and getting hard, perfect to suck into her mouth and roll over her tongue.

She could spend – had spent – hours in something like meditation, tracing the circles of sensitive skin with the tip of her tongue, suckling at the hard nubs so similar and yet so different from the guy-version, stroking and biting at the gorgeous heft of the curves behind them.

This, obviously, was payback.

America shifted and opened up her shoulders, which still required some contortion, but her skin was smooth as silk under the neck of her t-shirt, her nipples high and tight under the thin cotton and Kate’s fingers, and that made it all worth it.

The door opened.

America sat up. Kate jumped back and whacked her tailbone against America’s massive desk.

Billy yelped. “Sorry!” He slammed the door closed on them.

 “We’re in a meeting,” Kate hollered, and America dropped her head to hit it against the surface of the desk.

“Lock your door!” Billy hollered back, and that was why he was her favorite.

“What?” That was Eli’s muffled voice in the hall, and Kate got a bad case of the giggles. America glared at her, lips wet and gleaming.

“Oh, nothing. Just more of Kate than I ever needed to see...” She could barely catch Billy’s reply as the voices moved away down the hall.

Kate rolled over the desk, landing lightly on the floor on the other side and throwing the latch home on the door. America sat back in her chair, her cheeks flushed and eyes dark as she watched Kate walk back, her lower lip caught between her teeth. “Come here,” she ordered, beckoning. While Kate’s favorite thing in the world was digging in her heels and _not_ taking orders, in this case, and this one only, she would make a ‘stupidly sexy’ exception.

“You like what you see?” Kate mocked her with the cliché, putting her hands on her hips and giving a little shimmy that made her dress sway. America flicked an eyebrow and waited for her to come close enough to grab her hand. She pulled Kate close, still standing, and settled herself so that Kate could brace her arms on the desk behind her, and America could – and did! – stroke her hands along Kate’s legs, pushing her dress up again as she went.

America’s mouth left heated trails along the skin at the top of Kate’s thigh, lines that cooled almost immediately on contact with the air. She didn’t try to hold Kate’s hands down – not after that disastrous first time – but settled her own fingers around Kate’s hips, with enough gentleness and strength that Kate could choose to lean in or pull away with equal safety at any time.

‘Love’ was one of the words that neither of them had ever, would ever use to strangle each other with. But sometimes at moments like that, Kate thought she understood what it meant.

The desk was cool beneath her hands as she leaned back, letting America’s hands and the solid oak support her weight. America pressed her mouth to the top of Kate’s cunt, her panties still a barrier between them, and breathed softly. She closed her mouth over the general location of Kate’s clit and tongued at it through the wet cotton, the temperature and rough drag of the fabric adding a new layer of sensation.

Kate spread her legs wider, and she could grab America’s hair like this, grab her and hold her in pace and just _take_ what she wanted, but it never worked that way. This was a gift, America’s tongue and lips and the hot slick of her saliva, like now, when she pulled Kate’s panties aside and traced a wavy line up from Kate’s ass to her clit with the very tip of her tongue.

She yelped, couldn’t help it, her hips jerking up in search of more friction, more heat, more pressure, but America pulled away. Then she was back, suckling gently at Kate’s hard and erect clit for a second before letting it go, running the flat of her tongue down along Kate’s folds. Everything ached, everything was slick and wet, America’s hands on her hips and her mouth on Kate’s cunt, her tongue quick and wicked. She was toying with her now, always just the tip, flickering over every sensitive spot and never landing long enough to do any _good_.

“ _Ugh,”_ Kate groaned aloud, and America let go of one of her hips. “You’re a horrible person, you need to know that.”

“You can’t always get what you want the moment you want it, Princess.” And maybe that was true, but did she have to sound so awful and smug about it?

“Try me,” Kate said, and shifted her weight forward, grinding down, just one for show, against America’s open mouth. America make a soft sound of surprise, but not displeasure, and opened her mouth, her tongue lancing deep between Kate’s labia and circling the exquisitely sensitive skin right at her entrance. “Fuck,” Kate swore reverently.  

America pulled her panties aside again, not off. She held up two fingers and crooked an eyebrow at Kate, waiting for permission. Kate nodded, human motion not quick enough to nod fast enough to get her to _move_ fast enough, but she got the message. America slid two fingers in and crooked them up at the same moment as her mouth descended. The world was hot and wet on Kate’s clit, the hollow space inside her filled with heat and thrusting fingers, scraping, stroking, not quite where she needed them, because her ~~girl~~ friend was a _jerk_.

Her tongue flickered, harder now, with more pressure, rubbing circles around Kate’s clit and hood, down into her folds and up again, her fingers just rough enough inside. There, not quite, _there_ ; Kate ground down and America changed angles, her fingertips rubbing hard against that knot of nerves inside. Sparks flew behind Kate’s eyes as she fucked down onto America’s fingers, her knuckles white as she dug her nails into the desk for leverage, no longer caring that the floor was cold against her bare feet, or the wood rough against her butt.

Movement between her legs made her open her eyes, even as the tidal wave built up inside, built and subsided, until she chased it desperately once more. America had popped the button on her jeans and had one hand down inside them, the quick jerky movements of her wrist the only visible part of her rubbing herself off. She opened her eyes and looked up at Kate, dragged her tongue in a circle around Kate’s clit, twisted her wrist to press at exactly the right place, then sucked, hard – hard – _hard!_

Kate arched as she came, her back bowing tight and her toes curling, only her teeth biting into her lip and the reminder that they were at work preventing her from _screaming_ , it felt so good. Fire exploded from her core, burning down her arms and legs, leaving her shaking, wrung out and helpless.

The soft press of lips against the inside of her thighs brought her back to reality, then kisses at the bends of her knees, the flat of America’s tongue soothing her burning and oversensitive cunt. “Oh,” Kate breathed out, her brain coiling and uncoiling inside her skull as it drifted in search of some kind of equilibrium. “You are. Yes, good. That.”

“The Vassar girl speaks,” America laughed, low and throaty, her teeth scraping along the tendon at the top of Kate’s thigh.

“Shut up,” Kate said, the words laced with a thick and intimate fondness. Her brain had stopped fuzzing out, though her limbs were still all warm and tingly, but America’s free hand was still down her pants and while she wasn’t frantic, Kate had already made her wait too long.

She dropped to her knees and America sat back in her chair. She straddled America, leaned over her and America bit at the under curve of her breasts through the silk of her dress. She braced on the back of America’s chair and slid her other hand down beside America’s inside the open waistband of her pants. America’s breathing hitched, her eyes already so dark, made darker by her dilated pupils, and Kate kissed her for the first time that afternoon. Kissed her and traced her tongue along America’s lips, tasting the faintly musky taste of herself. _Mango_ , she imagined, and laughed at her own absurdity.

America’s cunt was slick and wet for her, her fingers sliding aside to make room for Kate’s hand. She spread her legs, her thighs knocking against the inside of Kate’s knees, her jeans wriggled down around her hips. Kate sank her tongue into America’s mouth, tasted more of herself there and the honey-sweetness of the bubble tea.

She slid her fingers between America’s folds, traced the circle of her entrance. She pressed the pad of her finger just up inside a little to watch her squirm and writhe, try to push down to take her further in. Two could play that one. Kate slipped her hand back, found the hard nub of America’s clit, and the little barbell through her hood.

America sighed and her hips rocked, her hand clenching on the arm of her chair, knuckles going white. She rubbed a circle around her clit beside Kate’s fingers, the barbell slick and gliding over her clit as Kate toyed with it. “Fuck,” America breathed out, almost too quietly to hear, and her eyes screwed tight as her hips lifted in time with Kate’s fingers. Kate bit the next words from her mouth, sucked at her bottom lip and thrust her fingers down again, past America’s clit.

The room was thick with the smell of sex, musk in her nose and on her tongue, the silk-smooth, wet glide of America’s cunt so good, so very good. She didn’t have any toys here, but she needed to fuck her, wanted to feel America riding down on her, her body closing tight around Kate and taking her up, up and in and under her skin.

America rolled her hips down and Kate’s fingertips sank inside her a fraction of an inch; not much, but enough for the message to be sent and received. She pushed further and America opened up around her, so hot, so tight. Two fingers in and then a third, find that rough spot on the front that would send sparks flying- she hit it, rubbing circles over America’s g-spot with steady pressure.

“More,” America demanded, grabbing at Kate’s shoulder with desperate intensity.

“Greedy girl.” She bucked and writhed, riding Kate’s hand, her clit and the barbell tracing hard patterns against the webbing at the base of Kate’s thumb. One of America’s own fingers slid inside her alongside Kate’s and she fucked down on them all, sucking and biting at Kate’s lower lip, her ear, her throat.

She came with arched back and rigid jaw, in a crescendo of sweat and muscle and almost no sound, a single tiny squeak muffled in Kate’s pink-bitten skin. That was the loudest she ever got, remnants of some time long ago when she had needed to learn to be secret, to stay safe.

They stayed like that for a minute, Kate’s fingers curling and uncurling gently inside America, her thumb there for America to rub out her aftershocks on. America’s arm – the one not down her own pants – stayed wrapped around Kate’s shoulders, their foreheads pressed together and skin slick with sweat.

Untangling only took a minute, cleanup only a little longer thanks to the babywipes Kate had stashed in America’s desk. Girl scouts of America, represent. America was buttoning up her jeans again by the time Kate was emptying her purse over America’s paperwork, her hairbrush – naturally – right at the bottom of everything. Because where else would it be?

“What are you doing?” America asked, her clothes back in order, her armor and shield against the world. Her hair was as much of a disaster as Kate’s was, flyaways sticking up at all angles from Kate’s fingers, a tangle at the back of her head where she’d rocked against her chair. Her brows furrowed as she watched the dump-search-rescue process.

“Getting rid of sex hair,” Kate proclaimed, and America gave her a sour look.

“Not with that, you’re not,” America proclaimed, and glared when Kate didn’t pack up the hairbrush.

Kate snorted, and pushed her shoulders down to put America back in her chair. “Relax. That’s for me, curly-Sue. Now sit your ass down.” America sat, and Kate perched on the desk. A quick kick of the feet spun her around to face the windows, the blinds drawn, and Kate pulled America’s long dark hair over the back of her chair.

Tangles vanished between her fingers as she slowly stroked them through the curls, separating them out and smoothing them down again. This was a different kind of good than the fucking, the kind of good that they never talked about after. But America’s eyes were closed, the tension had ebbed out from her shoulders and spine, and her full, red lips curled up in a gentle smile that Kate never saw any other time.

And when you had that in your life, even if it was just for a little while, who needed words? 


End file.
